


12:02

by sharkie



Series: The Broad Walls [10]
Category: Babylon (TV)
Genre: Gen, Missing Scene, possibly?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-22
Updated: 2016-10-22
Packaged: 2018-08-20 04:47:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8236585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharkie/pseuds/sharkie
Summary: "Finn, when you came to me, I listened to you."





	

Liz has been watching the feeds from cameras around London. One screen displays a close view of a street occupied by rioters - a particular pair of would-be looters are arguing smack dab in the middle, gesticulating wildly with the occasional shove. It's a fitting diversion while she reflects on Inglis' speech. And Grant Delgado's casually-dropped bombshell may have destroyed Liz's confidence in Sharon in one go, but it was also the most recent in a series of questionable decisions. 

It's barely even noon.

Behind Liz, Mia mumbles “there”. Someone steps into place beside Liz. Finn. Of course. She’s rolled her eyes so often in the past few hours that she accepts his arrival without obvious reaction, internal screaming muffled by the clamour of the control room. Her - Deputy? - is currently the least of her problems. 

“They came separately,” Liz says, pointing at the squabbling looters, “but I think they already knew each other.”

“Will you name them?” Finn quips. “Tweet their backstories in five thousand parts?”

 _Now_ she rolls her eyes, perfectly timed as she turns to face him. His expression is predictably smug, but smaller, somehow. Weaker. Like someone threw water on it and it shriveled.

“What do you want, Finn?” she snaps.

“What I want isn’t important. It rarely is. You should’ve had that in mind when you accepted the job.”

Her gaze darts to his lips, as they tend to, these days. “You want more than you realise.”

“I want the riot to end, I want Inglis as Commissioner, and I want you to fuck off,” he lists flatly. “Satisfied?”

“Rarely.”

Riot scenes are probably more interesting and less anxiety-inducing than yet another fucking confrontation with Finn. Sure enough, the two looters’ shoves have become more forceful as they shout into each other’s faces. A violent showdown seems imminent; the rest of the crowd have already cleared a circle of space around them, anticipating a full-on fight.

“You’re making a mistake,” Finn says, vehement tone strained - more desperate than angry.

“Surprise, surprise,” Liz drawls. “Since the first hour of my first day, that’s all you’ve ever told me.”

“I’d retract most of those criticisms if it meant you’d actually consider this one.”

What the fuck? She whips around to face him again, hoping to glimpse a hint of anguish to match his voice. The sight isn't as gratifying as she'd assumed it would be.

“Just to be clear,” Finn continues and _ah,_ that's more like it, he's regressed to condescending, “I don’t see your fingerprints all over Sharon's campaign; I see two fucking handprints and a footprint. In paint.”

“So?” Liz points at the exit. “Go bother her. If you're concerned about your future employment, maybe there’s a position for you in her team, like an unfunny jester or a mouthy coatrack.”

“I don’t give a fuck about either of you,” he snaps. “I’m only here because you’re the one with the slightest possibility of listening to me.”

“You’re doing great so far,” Liz says dryly, and turns away.

On the screens, every scene is escalating, but nothing is quite as surreal as the two idiot looters still arguing in the middle of a street being increasingly littered with broken glass and unidentifiable debris. She waits for Finn to spit “fuck you” and storm off. But he stays put, tucking his hands into his pockets, chewing at a sedate pace. His eventual sideways glance isn’t exactly angry. It's a look she hasn't seen since a split second during Richard’s funeral.

“I always thought it’s ironic that this is a ‘control room’ when it revolves around lack of control,” Finn says, far too amicable given the circumstances, the company, and the foundation of who he is as a nominal person. “Almost everything here is the result of something random or reactionary. If we admit how little control we actually have -” he points at the screens, “- this happens in a day. We stick to procedure because it's predictable. _Limits_ exist to enforce order.”

“In theory and short-term practice if it goes according to plan, sure.” Liz returns his glance with added intensity. “But lack of control doesn’t mean you’re powerless.”

She’s delivered a perfect exit line, but she won’t give ground, and Finn has seemingly resolved to pester her with his presence until she responds. Onscreen, the two specific looters are faring better. They've moved to a relatively empty corner and appear to be calming down. Their shoving has ended, gestures infrequent and constrained. So what if a little fire blazes nearby? Their reconciliation could re-inspire mild faith in humanity.

It’s been a weird day.

“Sharon plans to use transport police to arrest striking cops,” Liz blurts.

Finn starts. “Jesus Christ, _what?”_

“I just found out from Grant - she went to the Mayor behind my back. She also wanted me to smear Charles this morning. I haven’t, and I won’t,” she adds, when Finn’s upper body coils in her direction, poised to launch like a vengeful jack in a box.

“And you accuse _me_ of stirring the pot,” he grumbles.

“You’re a spatula, Sharon is apparently a blender. It’s not important in the bigger scheme,” Liz says with a dismissive wave, as if she’s mentally wiping away her own involvement. “Her plan could weaken us in the public eye, enrage the rest of the police force, set a new relationship with the Mayor’s office...plus, Richard would’ve hated it - ”

“You can't tether your ideas to him forever, Liz,” Finn admonishes. “One day, Miller’s legacy will rust into unrecognisable, and you'll be the lone tugboat trying to drag a near-submerged ship that should've been scrapped before it could sink.”

“What kind of boat are you, Finn?” Liz wonders, tapping her chin. “Junk ship? Man-of-war in a fleet of submarines? Leaky canoe, up the creek without anyone to paddle?”

“If we're going to talk about ships, let’s discuss you jumping from yours.” Fuck. She can't argue with a segue like that. “You said I don't believe in anything, but I do. I believe in whatever Inglis stands for, even if I complain the whole time, even if I can't pinpoint what it is.” Finn pauses. “He’s my friend.”

“Yeah, right,” Liz sneers. “You hung him out to dry over Securamax, hoping I'd use the tip to prove how terrible I am.”

“It wasn't just about you. I really wanted to keep him here - for our sake and his.”

“Against his will and without his knowledge? That's nice.”

“I was _right,_ ” Finn claims. “The Securamax negotiations could've blown up in our faces when Richard died. We could've had an Acting Commissioner who'd been secretly dealing with a private security service - the same service he publicly defended at the start of the month. We would've had a worse succession crisis - ”

“So you baited me, then called me out for causing the result you wanted,” Liz summarises.

He half-shrugs. “Yes.”

She stares at him like she's imagining squashing his face between her eyelids. “You can understand why I don't put much stock in your word.”

“My opposition is reliable. Inglis has kept his word on not perpetuating the power struggle. Can you trust Sharon?” Finn has slipped into the outskirts of Liz’s personal space; the usual edge in his voice smooths, its loftiness deepens, and it's the most dangerous thing she's heard all day. “Do you know her as well as you know me?”

“I'm pretty sure I know her better than I know you,” Liz counters. Let him interpret that as he will. Then she frowns. Their conversation has been so engaging, she’s forgotten several crucial questions. Would Finn really expect her to quit and leave London out of guilt? Why does it matter that he and Inglis genuinely believe in their outdated approach? What's up with his searching stare and...

Shit. Shitting fuck.

Liz steps back, subconsciously worried that this is a fake Finn rigged to explode.

“Finn -” She almost wheezes, gut-punched by disbelief, “- are you asking me to defect?”

“I might be p...proposing an alliance,” Finn says, relinquishing some breathing room Liz didn't realise she'd appreciated. It’s best to ignore how his typically-sharp tongue faltered over the fourth word. “It won't be easy, especially for you. Even I have issues with Inglis. He's technophobic. He's too open to privatisation -”

“This is your  _pitch_?”

“But he’s a good person.” Liz's groan elicits a death glare from Finn. “At least, better than Sharon or either of us. I know for a fact that he won’t put his needs above the city’s.”

“Why? Because you've tried convincing him to?”

“Fuck you.”

“He's probably not that bad,” she concedes. “I thought he spoke to the armed cops extremely well. Problem is, _your_ approval deducts points from the average morality meter.”

“What do you think we did three days ago?” Finn demands. “Holed up in the big office, cackling, drafting plans for Inglis’ leadership? No, he visited Mrs. Jeffries for three fucking hours. He refused to publicise the visit even though it would’ve countered Sharon. Meanwhile, you rearranged PCSO deployment like a demented Girl Scout playing with toy soldiers, then flung shit at him.”

“A tactic you think I learned from you, Cadette Kirkwood.” Liz balances imaginary weights with her hands, though thanks to her agitation, it’s closer to imaginary juggling. “So I can stick with Sharon, have few of my ideas implemented, and watch her destroy the police force. Or I can switch to Charles and risk getting fired by Sharon. Or I can switch to Charles and risk getting fired by Charles, who wouldn't listen to any of my ideas in the best case scenario.” The weights are level before she folds her arms across her chest; she can’t quite swallow the emotion wavering her voice. “Happy, Finn? I’m trapped again.”

Finn begins to open his mouth, tenses his jaw instead, and fixes her with a pointed stare.

“I’d _become_ powerless,” Liz insists. “You’d practically run Communications. Inglis would make sure of that.”

“Not necessarily,” Finn says, quietly, gaze flicking to the floor. His scowl has reappeared by the time he looks up. “I’d retain my role as his adviser, of course. But I think he'd be open to someone else handling his PR.”

Finn has attempted lying to Liz's face before, and at the moment, she's fairly certain he's sincere. It's like he spent his monthly supply of plausibility on his fictional wife or the bullshit he's been funneling to the press.

“We'd be on equal footing?” she rephrases. 

“For now. If he accepts us for what we are.” Finn sighs in resignation and lifts his hands in turn, symbolising Inglis' shoulders. “Devil and other, inferior devil.”

“In with the old, in with the new, and see what’s pushed out? Channel the ideological clash, not harness our talents separately?” Liz's skepticism fails to entirely muffle her hopeful interest. “It’s a long shot, but it's worked in surprising places. Reboots of Hasbro brands, steampunk culture, electro swing…” Finn seems confused. In the spirit of cooperation, maybe she should use an example he’ll definitely understand. “Imagine Miss America riding a dinosaur.”

If the subsequent silence is a pregnant pause, it’s inching towards post-term.

“Or getting eaten by one,” Finn suggests.

Liz grimaces, because that isn’t much better, but she’s distracted by unusual movement on the video feed with the two looters. The street is less chaotic now, except for a thinning group of rowdy stragglers smashing windows and -

“What the fuck,” she says, stepping closer. 

Finn follows. Together, they gape at the screen, where the two looters are locked in a passionate kiss-and-embrace that’s quickly escalating and/or descending into groping.

“Oh.” Liz’s eyes widen. “Oh, God, are they going to -”

Her hand flies to her mouth. They _are_.

“Fuck. No.” Finn’s jaw drops. “She wouldn't - in public, during a riot - ”

Liz shoots him an open glare; remarkably, the first in a minute. “He’s participating, too, you know.”

“Inglis is upstairs,” Finn says, increased chewing serving as the only sign that he heard Liz’s protest. “Wait here if you decide to suck it up and pitch your assistance.”

That dumps a bucket of icy water on whatever warmth they might’ve kindled. “Hypothetically, you wouldn't vouch for me?”

“You’re allegedly charming. You figure it out.”

They exchange glowers until Liz chances another glance at the screen, drawing Finn’s attention there, as well. The looters have progressed to first-stage undressing and are steadily working towards the next.

“I should go,” Finn declares. He hastens to leave - then backtracks when he realises he’s alone. “Are you still watching?”

“All of the other screens are appropriate to watch, so…”

Their throat-clearing overlaps, and he turns to leave again.

“I'll think about what you said,” she promises.

“Thinking isn't your strong suit.”

“Have you ever asked for help before, or could you not convince anyone to teach you how?”

“I’d tell you to think harder about what I said, but that defeats the purpose. Enjoy your softcore riot porn,” Finn adds over his shoulder, loud enough to be heard by the people around them. 

“I will!” Liz calls after him, cupping a hand around one side of her mouth. “Enjoy trying to jack your flaccid dick with a roll of barricade tape!”

She answers Mia's puzzled look with her own. Seconds later, the video feed switches to a comparatively tamer scene. Liz’s heavy heart pounds - from leftover adrenaline, from growing remorse, from anxiety over the inevitable upcoming confrontations. Less than a month, and she feels like she's slogged through a year. Half a day ahead, but time is running out.


End file.
